” Her answer was terse. He has helped me out of scrapes though, no end of times. This also struck her as odd. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. Taber returning. But that title he would not endure. Perhaps my wife has already prepared you for what I wish to say.
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